Morning crept through the frost-laced windows as soft gold filtered in. The faint hush of snow drifting against stone was the only sound in the room as Dark's eyes opened.
No alarm.
No urgency.
Just calm.
He sat up with a slow stretch, arms reaching back, spine clicking faintly as the cold kissed his skin. He stood, rubbed the corner of one eye, and walked barefoot across the polished stone floor into the bathroom. The mirror greeted him like an old enemy.
He didn't hesitate.
Dark reached for the toothbrush and paste without thought, the motions automatic—engraved muscle memory. As the brush slid across his teeth, he stared at himself.
Dark: (while brushing) I remember when I used to hate this mirror...
Dark: All I saw... was a monster. Sukojo.
He spit. Rinsed. Washed his face with cold water, the kind that cut deep into memory. Towel dried. Silent. Focused.
Then—
He stepped into his garments with fluid grace, tightening the black-feathered hooded cloak around his shoulders. He lifted the hood. Let it settle just above his eyes.
His mouth and chin remained visible.
The rest? Cloaked in shadow.
Dark: (looking at his reflection) Alright. Visitors today. Gotta look the part.
He stepped out into the hallway and opened the large twin doors of his quarters. The morning air rolled in—clean, cold, alive. Below, his people moved like clockwork. Not a single face bowed in fear.
They smiled.
They called out.
Emperor Dark!
Good morning, Dark!
Dark! Look what I made!
Dark stepped into the light.
Dark: Morning, everyone.
The words echoed warmly, and the people echoed louder—returning it not with formality, but with joy.
They weren't serving him.
They were walking with him.
From behind, four familiar presences approached.
Gilmuar, arms folded, eyes calm, a half-grin on his face.
Leona, light on her feet, coat catching wind, eyes bright.
Tier, carrying blueprints under one arm, chewing on something probably not edible.
And Cron, hands in pockets, relaxed as ever.
They didn't speak.
They didn't push past him.
They just stood behind him—shoulders to shoulder, but Dark still at the front.
Waiting.
Then—
A Hollow approached from the courtyard.
Hollow: Emperor... the visitors have arrived.
Dark nodded once.
Dark: Lead them in.
The Hollow bowed and vanished into smoke.
Dark exhaled and looked forward as the main gates began to rumble open in the distance.
The black-iron gates groaned as they parted, slow and deliberate—stone grinding against stone, chains rattling like the breath of some ancient beast being released. A gust of wind slipped through the opening, cold and dry, curling through the outer wall and scattering dust across the path ahead.
And then they arrived.
Two silhouettes stood beyond the veil of frost-coated air, side by side, unmoving.
The first figure stepped forward—bare boots pressing against the stone like time itself bowed beneath each stride.
Zyke.
The newly crowned Prince of the Death Empire.
The snow refused to touch him. The wind circled him like it didn't dare bite. His long obsidian hair was tied back, braided with rings of polished bone. His cloak, layered in fractured black metal and stitched with sigils of ancient decay, trailed behind him like a dying comet. Around his neck hung the Mark of Ascension—etched with Death's crest, still glowing faintly. It pulsed, slow and steady, like a second heartbeat. The proof of his rank-up.
His eyes—pale gray, nearly white—never blinked. He didn't need to speak. His presence was enough. Controlled. Absolute. Unafraid of judgment, because judgment meant nothing to Death's blood.
Behind him, the second figure moved with zero sound—no footsteps, no shift in weight, not even a breath to track.
Yenshin.
Once known as the King of Death. Now, the Right Hand of Death itself.
His armor was unlike anything seen in the mortal plane—void-black, woven from reaped time and sleepless night. It shimmered faintly in fragments, like dying stars trapped in iron. A single broken crown floated inches above his head, rotating gently, untouched by gravity.
His face was unreadable. Half-hidden beneath a jagged mask fused to bone. But his eyes glowed a deep, emotionless amber—like fire that had burned too long to care anymore.
He stopped beside Zyke, and the gates closed behind them with a heavy thud, echoing across the Empire's walls.
The crowd fell silent.
Not out of fear.
But recognition.
They didn't kneel.
They didn't cheer.
They simply watched.
Dark stepped forward slowly.
Gilmuar, Leona, Tier, and Cron remained at his sides, flanking him like quiet shadows—but Dark walked ahead. Not to show rank.
But to show welcome.
Dark: (thinking) The Death Empire doesn't send envoys.
Dark: They send certainties.
He stopped a few feet in front of Zyke, the light between them fractured by the pale sun.
Zyke tilted his head.
Zyke: You look different.
Dark: You look taller.
Zyke smirked. Barely.
Zyke: I ranked up.
Dark: Yeah, I can tell. You're taller, smugger, and now you've got that glow around your neck.
Zyke smirked, half-proud.
Zyke: Death doesn't rank people up for fashion.
Dark: And yet here you are... draped in bone like a runway model.
Behind Zyke, Yenshin exhaled softly through his nose.
Not a laugh.
Not annoyance.
Just presence.
Dark looked at him now. No smile. No sarcasm.
Dark: Yenshin.
Yenshin: Dark.
His voice was low. Rough. Ancient. Like it hadn't spoken in years and didn't need to again. His amber eyes burned beneath that mask—eyes that had once looked down on Dark mid-defeat.
They stood for a moment, just watching each other. The old blood between them never vanished. But it had been buried. By time. By war. And by Sojo.
Yenshin: You're still alive.
Dark: You're still dramatic.
Yenshin's hand flexed at his side. Just once.
Zyke stepped between them with the casual ease of someone used to stopping apocalypses over lunch.
Zyke: We didn't come to rekindle war.
Dark: You sure?
Zyke: Mostly.
Dark turned, black cloak fluttering slightly as the snow picked up again.
Dark: Come on.
They followed him through the opened gate, which shut behind them with a heavy, quiet finality.
The Empire was awake.
Smoke drifted lazily from forge vents. Shadows patrolled the walkways with silent precision. Champions were scattered—training with recruits, organizing supplies, or simply watching from the rooftops.
Children ran past the trio, one of them dragging a wooden sword nearly bigger than his body. Another threw a snowball at a Hollow, who simply caught it mid-air and crumbled it with precision.
Zyke walked slowly, hands behind his back, nodding with vague approval at the buildings, the layout, the people.
Yenshin walked like a predator.
His eyes swept every movement. Every laugh. Every spark of warmth. He didn't smile. He didn't nod. His instincts screamed at him to burn it all. Crush it. Silence it.
But he didn't.
Because Dark was here.
And Sojo wasn't far.
Dark: You're quiet, Yenshin.
Yenshin: You know why.
Dark: I killed no innocents here.
Yenshin: You built a place where they breathe.
Dark: That's the point.
Yenshin looked down at a young girl painting symbols onto a wall with charcoal. She smiled up at him. Waved.
He stared at her for a moment too long.
Dark: Don't.
Yenshin: (low) I won't.
They walked on.
Gilmuar passed by carrying enchanted lumber over one shoulder. He paused when he saw them, especially Yenshin.
Gilmuar: ...Dark?
Dark: It's fine. They're guests.
Gilmuar: If one of them blinks wrong, I'm melting his face.
Zyke: Understood.
Yenshin: Try it.
Dark: Enough.
They entered the center square, where a group of villagers were setting up tables for the evening meal. A few of the younger builders paused to stare, clearly intimidated.
Zyke looked over the structures, the energy of the people, the laughter without fear.
Zyke: I thought death made people humble.
Dark: Sometimes it just teaches them how to live.
Yenshin: (gritting quietly) And sometimes it teaches them what must be taken.
Dark didn't look at him.
Dark: If Death truly hated this place, you wouldn't be here.
Yenshin said nothing.
But he stopped staring at the children.
Instead, he looked at Dark.
And gave the faintest tilt of his head.
Respect.
Nothing more.
Dark: I'll give you the full tour. You can judge it with your own eyes. No lies. No mask.
Zyke: And after?
Dark: Then we talk about why you really came.
Yenshin: Good.
They kept walking.
The wind shifted.
A few flakes danced in front of them, catching the light like slow-falling ash.
And then—
A little girl appeared.
Barely six, her cheeks pink from the cold, scarf nearly swallowing her entire neck. She stood in the middle of the path, hands trembling as she raised a wooden sword—more stick than weapon—and pointed it straight at Yenshin.
Girl: You... don't belong here!
Zyke stopped mid-step, eyebrows lifting slightly.
Dark blinked once.
But Yenshin?
He stared.
Silent.
The girl's boots sunk slightly into the snow. Her hands were shaking, but her eyes—wide, fierce, childish—didn't look away.
Girl: We don't let monsters walk free anymore!
Girl: You and your scary coat can leave now or never live again!
Zyke: (under his breath) Oh my god.
Yenshin didn't speak.
Instead, his eyes slowly began to change.
No glow. No flash.
Just a presence.
A dreadful, ancient weight curled out of him like smoke without fire. The light in his pupils dimmed into something colder—older. His gaze bore into the child like a crack forming in reality.
The girl's sword dipped slightly.
Her smile faded.
She didn't understand what was happening, but her soul did. Her breath caught. Her lips parted like she was about to cry without knowing why.
Yenshin stepped forward.
And that was all it took.
Dark didn't speak.
Didn't move.
He just turned his head.
And looked at Yenshin.
—
Yenshin froze.
The horror he was pushing forward recoiled, hitting a wall far denser than his own.
Dark's eyes weren't glowing.
They weren't flaring with power.
But they were watching.
And in that watching—there was threat. Final. Unspoken. Absolute.
It wasn't just power.
It was a reminder.
That Dark would've fought both of them—right there, right then—if Yenshin took one step too far.
Zyke shifted uneasily.
Yenshin looked back into those eyes.
His breath left him.
A single exhale.
He said nothing.
But he stepped back.
The pressure vanished.
The girl blinked, confused for a moment, then turned toward Dark with a bright grin.
Girl: Was that good?! Did I protect the Empire?
Dark: (calmly) You did well.
Dark: But go home now. And be careful next time.
Girl: Okay!
She turned and skipped off through the snow like nothing had happened.
Zyke let out a sigh.
Zyke: ...She's got guts.
Dark didn't look away from Yenshin just yet.
Only when he felt the tension fully settle did he speak again.
Dark: My empire has no ranks.
Dark: No kings. No lords. No gods.
Dark: But it does have boundaries.
Yenshin: (quietly) And consequences.
Dark: Exactly.
They started walking again.
This time, no one said a word.
The silence followed them all the way through the Empire's heart. Past the smithies lined with rising smoke. Past the training fields echoing with wooden strikes and laughter. Past the murals half-painted by children on stone walls. Until finally, they arrived at the central plaza—a space carved with intention, not luxury. A large flat circle of obsidian tile, ringed by fire pits and wide benches.
Dark sat first.
No throne here.
Just a bench made of blackstone, wide enough for them all.
The snow fell quieter here.
Zyke sat next to him, pulling his gloves off and rubbing his fingers together.
Yenshin stood for a moment longer, then sat on the far end of the bench, his gaze still half-turned away. Watching the villagers move. Watching their calm.
A Hollow approached with a tray—three cups of something hot. Dark nodded once.
Dark: Thank you.
The Hollow bowed and disappeared again without a word.
Zyke raised the cup, sniffed once, then took a sip.
Zyke: Huh.
Zyke: Didn't think you'd be a fan of mint.
Dark: I'm not. The kids are. They grow it near the south trench. Thought I'd support it.
Zyke: Fair enough.
A short silence.
Then Zyke looked over.
Zyke: You know why we're here, don't you?
Dark: I have guesses.
Zyke set the cup down.
Zyke: Death's been watching.
Zyke: Not as a god. Not as a reaper. But as... an idea. The Empire of Death's whole purpose has always been balance. Order. Making sure life doesn't go unchecked and rot into chaos.
Zyke looked around—the warmth, the people, the rising structures of new hope.
Zyke: But you're doing something different.
Zyke: You're building life after rot. Peace after slaughter. That's rare.
He paused.
Zyke: And Death wants to support it.
Dark didn't blink.
Zyke: Nothing insane. No army. No oaths. Just... a connection.
Zyke: A bridge between us. Trade. Passage. Protection if you need it.
Dark: And the cost?
Zyke: There's none.
Zyke: Not from Death.
He leaned back, fingers tapping the edge of his cup.
Zyke: Honestly, we just want to see how far this goes.
Dark finally turned his eyes to Yenshin.
Dark: And him?
Zyke: He doesn't kneel to anyone but Death.
Dark: That's not what I asked.
Yenshin didn't answer immediately.
Then—
Yenshin: I came because Death asked me to.
Yenshin: I stayed because I wanted to see if the rumors were true.
Dark: And?
Yenshin: (after a pause) They weren't.
Dark arched an eyebrow.
Yenshin: They didn't do you justice.
Zyke chuckled once under his breath.
Zyke: So? What do you think?
Dark looked into his cup for a long second. Then drank the rest.
Dark: I think it's a beginning.
Zyke: Then let's build it.
Dark: Slowly.
Zyke: Steadily.
Dark: Without thrones or chains.
Zyke: That's how Death prefers it.
Dark nodded once.
Dark: Then welcome to the edge of life.
Dark: And whatever comes after.
Zyke leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, steam from his cup rising like pale smoke around his face.
Zyke: You know what Death said to me before I left?
Dark didn't answer. Just watched.
Zyke: "If he fears power, leave. If he craves power, destroy him. But if he respects power—stay."
He glanced sideways at Dark.
Zyke: I think I'm staying.
Dark: And what do you think I am?
Zyke: Someone who could become all three... but chose none of them.
Dark sat back, his gaze drifting upward—toward the dim sky cracking with sunlight.
Dark: Death still speaks like that, huh?
Zyke: Always. One part poetry. One part prophecy. All parts headache.
Yenshin: (quietly) That's why he chooses messengers.
Zyke snorted.
Zyke: Yeah. I think Death just enjoys watching people stumble through meaning.
Dark: So do I.
Zyke chuckled.
Then—
Dark stood.
Zyke and Yenshin stood as well, instinctively. The difference between respect and reflex wasn't spoken, but it lingered.
Dark: Let me show you something.
They followed.
Across the courtyard, through the still-building western wing, and down a narrow corridor lined with engraved walls.
Script etched into stone—old languages, mixed dialects. Names. Symbols. Some carved by children. Others by Champions. Some just scrawled with shaking hands and coal.
At the end—
A wide chamber, open to the sky.
Snow fell through the broken dome above, and in the center—an ever-burning brazier. Around it, shelves. Scrolls. Records. Stories.
Zyke stepped in slowly.
Zyke: A library?
Dark: An archive.
Dark: No kings. No priests. No false gods.
Dark ran his fingers across one of the shelves.
Dark: Just truth.
Zyke: You really think people care about truth?
Dark: No.
Dark: But they deserve the chance to.
Yenshin looked around. His eyes lingered on a scroll halfway unfurled across a stone table.
It was a child's drawing.
Stick figures. A black figure standing above a broken building. Below it: "Dark saved us."
He stared at it for a long time.
The crackling of the brazier beside them faded beneath the quiet. Even Zyke didn't speak. The air felt thicker somehow—like the drawing had weight, as if the child's memory had burned itself into the stone with more permanence than history books ever could.
Dark reached out, fingertips brushing lightly over the uneven charcoal strokes. The lines weren't perfect. The symmetry was nonexistent. The scale was off. But somehow... it felt real. Truer than the murals carved into the throne room.
Leona's voice echoed from across the square.
Leona: Hey—Dark, they're setting up the midday fire circle. You joining?
He didn't answer immediately.
Zyke and Yenshin both turned their heads slightly toward the sound, then back at him. Dark let his hand fall back to his side.
Dark: In a minute.
His voice was quiet, not soft. Weighted, not heavy.
He turned to the two of them.
Dark: You see this?
Zyke raised a brow.
Zyke: What? A child's drawing?
Dark: No.
Dark: A future.
He stepped back, letting the shadows fold across the crude etching again. Letting it return to its home along the stone, unbothered.
Dark: We can argue empires. Ranks. Dominions. Strength.
Dark: But if none of it protects the ones who made this—
Dark: Then all of it is worthless.
Yenshin narrowed his eyes. There was something unreadable behind them. Not disagreement. Not anger. Just... restraint.
Zyke: You're really building this like it's going to outlive you.
Dark looked at him calmly.
Dark: It has to.
He gestured out toward the main square, where the laughter of children could be heard. Where shadows stood guard over gardens and Champions helped villagers lay bricks for another building. Where peace, fragile but honest, was beginning to root.
Dark: I'm not stupid enough to think I'll live forever.
Dark: But this?
Dark: This should.
He looked back at the two visitors.
Dark: And if Death's Empire ever decides to challenge that... I won't raise a single blade.
Dark: The people will.
Zyke looked at Yenshin for a second—silent exchange.
Yenshin didn't blink. But his next words carried a tension Dark could hear, even if no one else could.
Yenshin: And what happens when they ask to be left alone?
Dark: Then you leave them alone.
Yenshin: And if they try to fight us?
Dark lifts his head up just a bit and looks down on Yenshin with a bit of a disdain look. His eyes glowing.
Dark: (coldly) Then you bury your pride, or I bury your empire.
The flame between them flared once—not from magic, not from wind.
But from the shift in presence.
Zyke smirked slightly, stepping forward to break the tension.
Zyke: I like this place.
Zyke: It's not perfect. But it feels real.
Zyke turned and looked back toward the horizon.
Dark stayed quiet for a second, hands in his pockets. The fire between them popped once, but none of them looked at it.
Dark: Took only a week to get here.
Dark: And we're still building. Still figuring things out.
Zyke: Honestly? You're doing better than most empires I've seen. And I've seen a lot.
Yenshin scoffed quietly under his breath, arms folded, but didn't speak.
Dark: You got something to say, Yenshin?
Yenshin looked at him.
Yenshin: I've seen your kind before. You build places like this with pretty words and empty dreams. Then it all falls apart.
Dark: You think this'll fall apart?
Yenshin: Not now. But eventually. Peace doesn't last. Not in our world.
Dark: Doesn't mean we stop trying.
Dark sat down again, resting his elbow on his knee.
Dark: I'm not doing this to create a perfect utopia. I'm just making a home. Something real. Something that doesn't fall the moment a stronger empire knocks on the gates.
Zyke: You really think people like us can live normal lives?
Dark: No.
Dark looked at them both.
Dark: But the people here can.
Zyke nodded slowly. Yenshin stayed silent.
Dark: And when I'm gone... I want this place to stay.
Dark: I don't want them to worship me. I don't want statues or poems or relics.
Dark: I want kids to grow up here thinking war is just a story. That monsters are only found in dreams.
He looked over at a group of children running past, one of them wearing a too-big black cloak trying to copy his walk.
Dark: That's enough for me.
Zyke: ...Death's gonna like you.
Dark: Death's not my concern. Only this place is.
Dark looked up.
Dark: If Death respects what I'm doing, good.
Dark: If not...
Dark stood again, brushing some ash off his shoulder.
Dark: I'll make them respect it.
Zyke smirked.
Zyke: You really haven't changed much, huh?
Dark: Not when it comes to the important stuff.
Yenshin looked out at the empire. At the people walking, talking, building, laughing.
He clenched his jaw.
Yenshin: I still don't trust it.
Dark: You don't need to.
Dark turned to face him fully.
Dark: But if you ever touch anyone here without my word... even once...
Dark's eyes narrowed slightly.
Dark: I don't care what rank you held. I'll remind you why even Sojo told you to stand down.
Silence.
Yenshin's gaze didn't waver. But he didn't respond either.
Zyke: Well then. Guess we've got a few more hours before we head out.
Dark: Stay as long as you want.
Dark: Just don't get in the way of the work.
Zyke: Wouldn't dream of it.
Zyke walked forward, looking around casually as villagers passed. Some of them looked at the two visitors with cautious eyes, but none were afraid. A few kids whispered about Yenshin's horns. One of them even pointed at Zyke's gloves and asked if he could make fire.
Zyke just smiled.
A few of the villagers approached him. One of the younger blacksmiths jogged over, holding a set of gauntlets made of matte-black steel.
Blacksmith: You're Zyke, right? From the Death Empire?
Zyke: That's what they call me, yeah.
Blacksmith: Could you take a look at these? I modeled them after some of the photos we found in the ruins. Think they're any good?
Zyke took the gauntlets, turned them over in his hands, felt the weight.
Zyke: Not bad. The balance is decent, the knuckle-plates are shaped right... but this inner lining's too stiff. That's gonna slow the user down during deflections.
Blacksmith: Damn. I knew something felt off.
Zyke handed them back with a nod.
Zyke: Switch to softer hide. Layered if possible. You'll get better motion and more comfort. Also... consider lowering the wrist by a half-inch.
Blacksmith: Seriously? Thank you!
The blacksmith ran off, clearly excited to apply the advice.
A group of kids ran up next, surrounding Zyke like he was some rare collectible.
Kid 1: Is it true you fought inside a storm that was made of bones?
Kid 2: My uncle said you ate a ghost once!
Zyke: I choked on a ghost. That's different.
The kids gasped in unison.
Zyke: And yeah, the bone storm thing happened. But it wasn't as cool as it sounds.
Kid 3: Did you scream?
Zyke: ...A little.
They laughed.
Zyke crouched down and let one of them touch the edge of his glove.
Zyke: You kids are weird.
Kid 1: You're weird!
Zyke: Fair.
Not far away, Yenshin stood alone near a wooden structure being built into the wall. A few older villagers stood nearby, watching him. One man, probably in his fifties, approached with caution.
Villager: You're one of Dark's visitors, yes?
Yenshin turned his gaze. Cold. Calculating. The man hesitated.
Yenshin: I do not kneel to him.
Villager: I... I didn't say you did.
Yenshin looked him up and down.
Then spoke.
Yenshin: The last time I stood in a village like this... I burned it down with a smile.
The man's expression dropped.
Yenshin: Their leader tried to stand in my way. He wielded a hammer made of sun-forged mythril and spoke like thunder.
Yenshin: He broke half my ribs.
The man took a step back.
Yenshin: But in the end, I broke him.
A silence followed.
Then Yenshin looked toward the horizon, away from the villager entirely.
Yenshin: He would've liked this place.
The man stared at him. Then... nodded. And walked away quietly.
Later, as the sun began its descent, Zyke was leaning against a half-built wall, watching the work continue. A warm breeze moved through the outer scaffolding. The sky painted itself in hues of burnt orange and fading blue.
Igor appeared from the shadows beside him, silent as always.
Zyke didn't flinch.
Zyke: You walk quiet.
Igor: I do not need to walk at all.
Zyke turned to him.
Zyke: You're the famous one, right? The God Killer?
Igor: Names hold weight. But not meaning.
Zyke: That supposed to be deep?
Igor: No.
A pause.
Then Igor gestured slightly toward the clearing behind them.
Igor: You and I.
Zyke: Hmm?
Igor: No anger. No stakes. Just two blades, meeting in the air.
Zyke smirked a little.
Zyke: You're asking for a friendly duel?
Igor: I ask nothing. I invite.
Zyke turned to face him fully now, cracking his neck.
Zyke: Damn. You really are one of Dark's.
Igor: I am his edge.
Zyke: Then I guess I'll be the wind that sharpens it.
They didn't fight—not yet. But they stood there for a while, opposite each other. Two swords in different sheaths. Not enemies. Not brothers. Just... forces that understood the thrill of a clean strike.
Elsewhere, near a small cooking fire, Yenshin sat on a low wooden seat, legs crossed. A few young men had gathered around him, clearly curious.
Young Man: So what happened next?
Yenshin: The flames parted, and there stood the Reaper of Obsidian, wrapped in bones, mouth stitched shut.
Young Man 2: That's not real.
Yenshin: He carried thirty blades fused into one. The handle was made from his brother's spine.
The boys leaned in.
Yenshin: I fought him for three days.
Young Man 1: And then?
Yenshin: I killed him on the fourth.
He took a sip of a steaming drink, staring into the fire.
Yenshin: Or perhaps... he let me.
A quiet fell.
Not fear.
Not awe.
Just stillness.
Dark watched from a distance, arms folded, cloak fluttering slightly.
He didn't interrupt.
He didn't need to.
Zyke was helping repair a broken fence with a few older workers, laughing with them as he accidentally broke the same board twice.
Igor remained by the sparring fields, still, watching with hawk-like silence.
And Yenshin, for all his coldness, hadn't made a single threat since the child.
Dark: (thinking) Maybe this could work.
He turned away and headed back into the Hall.
Elsewhere in the village, Yenshin's steps echoed softly against stone. His gait was calm, his expression unreadable as ever. He wasn't lost—Yenshin never got lost—but the structure he entered had no door, no markings. To him, it was just another outpost or perhaps an armory.
He pushed aside the cloth covering the entrance and stepped in.
Warm air. Candlelight. The scent of mint and fresh soap.
And in the corner of the room—
A woman, standing near a water basin, tugging the last strap of her shirt over her shoulder. Her back was exposed. The cloth was half-tucked at the side. Her skin, pale but dusted with light scars, shimmered faintly in the golden flicker.
Yenshin stopped.
A heartbeat passed.
Then two.
The woman turned, eyes wide.
And Yenshin—who had seen corpses reanimated by screaming gods, who had fought wars in dimensions without names—snapped around so fast his cloak nearly ripped from his back.
Yenshin: My deepest apologies—
His voice—normally level, sharp, and cold—came out formal, tight, and flustered.
Yenshin: I had mistaken this home for a garrison—no signs marked—your privacy is unviolated, I swear it on—
Woman: Wait, wait—!
She had stumbled slightly in the rush to finish tying her blouse, nearly knocking over the basin.
The scream almost came. But didn't.
She paused.
Looked at him.
And smiled.
Woman: It's alright. You didn't see anything.
Yenshin kept facing the wall.
Yenshin: I saw your shoulder.
Woman: Oh no... not my shoulder.
Yenshin: This is not a jesting matter.
Woman: Hahaha, relax. You're acting like you walked in on a goddess mid-transformation.
Yenshin: I've seen one of those too. She tried to kill me.
She tilted her head.
Woman: Did she succeed?
Yenshin: No.
She stepped closer. Just enough for her voice to lower.
Woman: You really that serious all the time?
He didn't respond.
Not at first.
Yenshin: I was forged in a place where love was a ghost story, and warmth was something you earned after bloodshed.
Woman: So no one's ever...?
Yenshin: No. None.
He turned slightly. Not fully. Just enough for her to see the clean line of his jaw and the sharp glint of his eyes, still aimed at the floor.
Yenshin: But you are safe now. That is all that matters.
She stepped forward and gently touched his arm—just the sleeve.
Woman: You remind me of a broken blade someone tried to throw away.
Yenshin: Then perhaps you should throw me, too.
Woman: Not all broken blades are useless.
She let go and walked past him.
Yenshin didn't move. Didn't speak.
But his hand flexed slightly.
And for the first time in what may have been centuries, his heart didn't feel so cold.
Outside, the sun had dipped just behind the northern ridge, bathing the Empire in a faint amber glow. Shadows stretched long. The wind had softened.
Yenshin sat alone on the edge of a low wall, arms folded, one leg pulled up over the other. He didn't know why he sat. Or how long he'd been there. He just... did. His eyes scanned the sky, watching the horizon fade into hues of deepening blue.
He was used to emptiness. He wore it like armor. But this silence was different. It wasn't hollow. It didn't echo. It just sat beside him—quiet, real, alive.
Then—
The soft crunch of footsteps behind him.
Woman: You didn't think I'd just leave you out here, did you?
Her voice—warm, like hot tea in a frozen room—cut through the air with that casual confidence only someone who mothered half a village without effort could carry. She walked up beside him, holding two cups of something steaming.
He didn't look at her.
She offered him one.
Woman: Chamomile. With a little honey. You probably hate it.
Yenshin took the cup without a word.
She sat beside him, crossing her legs, sighing softly as if the entire day had built up just to be released in that single breath.
Woman: My name's Sariah, by the way.
Yenshin: Yenshin.
Sariah: I know.
She smirked.
Sariah: You're the scary one everyone keeps pretending not to stare at.
Yenshin: Good.
Sariah: Hah. You're really committed to the whole 'stone-faced killer' thing, huh?
Yenshin said nothing.
Sariah leaned back slightly, holding her cup near her lips but not drinking yet.
Sariah: You know... I've seen a lot of wounded men. Fighters. Veterans. Demons. Even a Champion once.
Yenshin: And?
Sariah: You all have the same eyes.
Yenshin finally turned to glance at her. Just a little.
Sariah: But yours... yours look like they haven't forgotten pain. They're still living it. Carrying it.
Yenshin: I carry only loyalty.
Sariah: Mhm. Loyalty with twenty scars under it and a heart that hasn't beat properly in centuries.
Yenshin lowered his gaze.
Sariah leaned closer, nudging his shoulder with hers gently. Her voice softened, not seductive, but comforting—like someone used to holding crying children and scolding stubborn warriors.
Sariah: You ever let someone help you carry it?
Yenshin: No.
Sariah: Maybe you should.
She didn't press further.
She just sipped her tea and looked at the stars.
And after a while, so did he.
They sat in silence.
But it wasn't awkward.
It was steady.
And when the stars fully took the sky and the last traces of the sun faded, Sariah stood and looked at him.
Sariah: Goodnight, Yenshin.
Yenshin didn't reply.
But when she turned to leave, she didn't hear footsteps behind her.
She just heard his voice.
Yenshin: Thank you... Sariah.
She smiled to herself.
And walked away.
End Of Arc 6 Chapter 4